A Better Daughter
by reigningsupreme
Summary: You'll be better, you'll be smarter; more grown-up and a better daughter.


Fiona visited her in her room on the fourth day, when she was sitting in front of her vanity. Once, her gaze would have been directed into the mirror ahead of her, but now, she could see nothing; just like before. It was morbidly funny, how fate kept forcing her into a state of blindness; but this was purely her own fault. No one had forced those pliers into her eyes; she had done it herself, struck by some stupid courage. She did not regret it; not at all. It was for the coven.

She was certain what horror would creep into someone's veins at the mere sight of her open, blank eye sockets, and so she had found the sunglasses folded on the edge of her vanity just in time, just seconds before her mother had opened the door. She slipped them on while turned away from Fiona.

"Delia?" Fiona's voice shook in a way Cordelia had never heard it. It was strange. She knew she should have been angry that the woman had not visited her sooner, to bring her comfort, to hold her hand. But why would she? She had no reason to. Fiona had never been caring, had never been the perfect maternal figure. She proved that again and again, one time after the other when her hand cracked against Cordelia's cheek and when she had called her worthless.

"Mother." Her voice was soft as she turned in the direction of the woman's voice, standing slowly from the chair beneath her. "Did Auntie Myrtle leave to get the herbs I asked her for?"

There was a silence, something stretched out between seconds and Cordelia realized that her mother had nodded. "Yes," the woman said hastily moments after, realizing what she'd done. It was almost amusing, in a morbid sort of way. "A mixture for your eyes, right?"

Cordelia nodded, and the silence between them afterwards was awkward, fraught with tension.

"Delia, I'm sorry."

Cordelia bit her lip, looked away. "For what?"

Fiona did not reply, but the familiar sound of her Manolo Blahniks echoed throughout the room as she moved closer, fingers trailing briefly across Cordelia's covered shoulderblades.

"Let me see them." For a moment, Cordelia didn't understand what she meant.

And then it clicked, and she felt dread pooling in the pit of her stomach.

She shook her head and pulled away. "No."

"Cordelia." Fiona's voice was stern, firm, and she used her full name — something that only ever meant that Fiona would get what she wanted no matter what. Reluctantly, Cordelia turned to her without any more arguing, lifting to pull the sunglasses away from her eyes.

There was a sharp intake of breath from in front of her, a gasp more than anything.

"Jesus Christ."

Cordelia tensed when fingers pressed to her cheeks, although she relaxed minimally when she found that her mother was wearing gloves; something that would stop any possibility of a vision. A leather-covered thumb smoothed over her scarred cheek, gentle. She wanted to recoil harshly, but she was afraid to move; afraid to do anything but stand there and allow her mother to continue her inspection.

"Why would you do this?"

"For the coven." The answer was automatic, lacking any hesitation at all. "I can be of use now."

"You were _always_ of use—"

"That isn't what you said."

Fiona fell eerily silent at her words.

For a long, tense period, Cordelia thought she'd be slapped again, or scolded, or yelled at; anything that let her know that Fiona was still the same ruthless person as ever, and not this oddly gentle woman. This oddly _concerned_ woman. She was acting the same way as she'd acted while Cordelia had been in the hospital, but this time the headmistress was not laying in a hospital bed, pleading for more morphine. This time, it was only a few days after Fiona had called her worthless and hopeless.

All the more reason for Fiona _not_ to act like this; but she didn't dare to turn such affection away. Not now, at least.

Fiona cleared her throat, and she could feel the woman's gaze on her face, on her eyes — or lack thereof. "I didn't mean what I said, Delia," she said, and her voice was soft and cool as she drew her hands away from Cordelia's cheeks. "You know that. At least, I hoped you would have."

"How was I supposed to know you didn't mean it?" Cordelia sounded like a lost child, even in her own ears, and she pursed her lips, sliding her sunglasses back on. "It doesn't matter now," she said and wanted to throw something sharp and breakable at her mother. "What's done is done."

She licked her bottom lip when her mother didn't reply with anything but silence.

"If that was all, Fiona?" _Distance yourself, Cordelia_, she reminded herself. First, the name. Fiona; she'd always thought of her mother as 'Fiona' and never 'mother'; even if she normally chose to stick to the title of a maternal figure when speaking to the woman. It had proved to be less trouble. This was not the first time she had called the reigning supreme by her full name to her face, but it was the first time that she felt as though she'd get punished for doing so.

Second, the tinge of impatience forced into her tone. Cordelia had no desire to make the woman feel _welcome_. Especially not now. "I have things to do." Third, a _lie_. She had nothing to do, not until the girls needed her for something, not until Myrtle returned, not until she was a necessity in this little war.

As a child, she'd hated being alone, and yet she'd suffered through it nevertheless. Fiona had never been there for her, after all. No one had. Fiona would waste her days away on alcohol, men and drugs, and at the age of six Cordelia learned better than to disturb her mother. She learned better than to go out and pick flowers from the garden and bring them to Fiona, expecting some kind of praise or an euphonious laughter. She would get nothing. She had never gotten anything from her mother, but for some years she'd expected Fiona to change, if only Cordelia made sure to remain a good girl, and was very quiet when Mommy had headaches or an upset stomach or was drinking the funny liquid in the tumblers.

By the time she was eight, she was eating and drinking on her own, cleaning up after her mother's messes — those of which included vomit. When Mommy's door was locked, she never knocked or tried to open it. When Mommy's door was unlocked, she still didn't do those things. Fiona had never been abusive; not physically, at least. Verbally, emotionally, mentally abusive — all things Cordelia had grown accustomed to. She could count on one hand and three fingers on the other the number of times her mother had slapped her throughout her lifetime, and all times had been years and years ago and not often when she was a child.

Often she thought that the verbal abuse and neglect Fiona had decided to put her through in her youth and even when she was older was worse than any sting of a slap.

Little Cordelia Foxx had always been so very gullible, so very kind and so very naive. As she had grown, none of those things had changed. When she'd been a student in Miss Robichaux's, she had read and read and read, and stayed away from the other girls who sought only to mock her all for her lack of power. As a child, she'd sworn that she would be more grown up and a better daughter, that she would be beautiful and honest and brave and _happy_, no matter what it took. She hadn't really understood, at that time, that there was nothing she could do to try and make her mother love her and adore her like she knew other mothers did their children. She'd thought it was something wrong with _herself_; not with Fiona.

She'd admired the woman so pitifully, and she'd gotten nothing in return for it.

She knew better than to adore Fiona Goode as she had long ago, now that she was thirty-six and hardened by acid and scars and the loss of her sight for the second time since her mother had returned to New Orleans. Cordelia was no longer naive. More than a little broken and far from naive.

She could almost physically _feel_ Fiona recoil from her words; they were not harsh, but they were cold. _Just like you, mother_, she thought. _I'm just like you, now, don't you see?_

She wanted to rip the own treacherous thoughts from her head and weep.

She did not.

Fiona cleared her throat again, and the noise was harsh and sharp in the silence. "I'll leave you be," she said, her voice softer than Cordelia had ever heard it. _And tearful_, not that she wanted to linger on that second realization. "I'm sorry, Delia," she added. _I'm sorry._ Again and again and again, that was all Fiona ever seemed to want to say to her anymore. Apologies were meaningless; where once she would have longed for them and taken them from Fiona willingly, now it was void of any significance at all.

"I know," Cordelia said, and the door closed behind Fiona.

She hoped Fiona noticed how she said _I know_ but not _I accept your apology_.

She hoped that the cancer would begin to take Fiona quicker. She could not handle this any longer than was completely necessary, and she realized that it had stopped becoming necessary quite a long time ago. And as she had failed at killing Fiona, the cancer would not do the same.

It was strange how, even now, when she loathed Fiona for all the woman had done and all that she would ever do, that she still wondered, for the briefest of moments, if the Supreme would be proud of her now, truly, knowing that her daughter had more power than she ever had before.

Cordelia supposed that she would never know at all.


End file.
